Seven Four Five
Some kind of mumbling out
In the hall.
A Multi-language hum from one,
With the smell of my cat.
I can see the large cross on top of Notre Dame.
Lots of vibrations mixed here,
Shifting from a shape called Earth.
This city is a collage of warped life,
Burned by a hypocritical sun.
Shaving as well as the daily rinse off.
I want to smoke,
To release some dirt.
There are barbed wire fences
Tied to the veins in my body.
Waiting for A-man to bring the Smurf houses,
Of the Holy.
The waiting game is the hardest part.
Already made a few calls.
Don't want to be a pain,
It ruins the glory that comes with the expansion.
Let freedom ring.
Happy Birthday America, you crab you.
Took an excursion,
Ate down some pies,
Now the movement is great.
Clowned webs cover the sidewalks,
Pleasant Street is crimped.
A Cambodian woman has vanished into the wall.
There is no shovel here,
To condense the smitten turnstile.
I repent and consent for a dashboard to pounce on,
Or, a talon to pick an itch on my organ topper.
There is only this corridor,
Leading to seasons with doorways to other seasons.
A suffered minion takes a hand towards the sun and hopes that it will come close enough to warm my dreams.
My dreams, My dreams.
No parts lofty,
I sense the Lord!
The world seams thick
With milkshake winds,
Could it be a boo in a who?
This place is a zoo.
Notes ring out in my head,
Symphonic sonic hum.
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Comments about this poem (Seven Four Five by Jason Pacheco )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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